“Some evenin’ soon,” said Betsy kindly, “you’ll come over here to supper with me, and I’ll fix it up with Sam Beebe to let us go to the inn and sit in some corner outside an open window, and we’ll see and hear Rosalie give her little show. You’ll be real pleased with her.” “I guess I shall,” returned Mrs. Pogram, in a sort of maze. “I guess I shall. There was always somethin’ out o’ the ordinary about her. I used to think it was that made Loomis mad.” Mrs. Pogram’s eyes looked into a void. “He’s goin’ to marry a real nice girl—poor thing!” she added. Delicacy restrained Betsy from inquiring which of the contracting parties was thus apostrophized by a fond sister, and in a few minutes her caller left. By a strange coincidence Mrs. Pogram was present a week later, when one afternoon Captain Salter approached his cottage laden with a heavy wooden case which he carried on his shoulder. He groaned in spirit as he beheld through the window the visitor’s ample sable proportions. “That’s goin’ to be Betsy’s trouble,” he muttered. “Everybody thinks too darned much of her.” He gave the caller a cheerful nod, however, as he entered the living-room. He was too happy himself not to let good cheer overflow upon all mankind. Betsy regarded the heavy case with surprise. “What ye been sendin’ to Boston for?” he asked, lowering his burden. “Nothin’. To Boston? There’s some mistake.” She approached and read the inky address. “Mrs. Hiram Salter.” The name was clear. Hiram brought some tools and opened the wooden box, then began to take out the packing within. “It’s a weddin’ present,” exclaimed Mrs. Pogram, throwing back her shawl in the excitement of the moment, and thanking the lucky star which had made her keep on from the market to the Salter cottage. Tissue paper began to come into view. Hiram looked at Betsy. “I guess I’ve gone as far as I darst,” he said. Color came into her cheeks as she lifted out package after package and laid them on the table. Mrs. Pogram rocked violently. Captain Salter lifted away the wooden case and packing. An envelope caught Betsy’s eye. She opened it and read the card within. “O Hiram!” she exclaimed brokenly. “It’s Mr. Irving!” “Irvin’ Bruce,” cried Mrs. Pogram, raising herself in her chair and dropping back again. Betsy gave the card to her husband. He read on it: “To dear Betsy, with her boy’s love.” A slow, broad smile grew on Hiram’s bronzed face, and he watched motionless while Betsy opened her treasures. Only Mrs. Pogram’s breathless ejaculations broke the stillness. “I never!—I never did!—Fit for a queen!—And I wanted to give you a spoon!” For the morocco cases held silver with the rose pattern which Irving knew that Betsy loved.